Nightsiders (10 page)

What did it all mean? There was no way of knowing; the human mind was like a faulty machine, rewriting its internal programming as it went along. For all Robert knew, he had been born only a minute ago, fully formed and with implanted memories. That did not necessarily mean any of this was real.

He was a writer; he created lies for a living, even when he was meant to be writing about the truth. What if all of creation was a lie? Robert had never believed in God or religion, and right now that seemed like an even more logical choice. Everything, he suddenly realized, was caught up in the act of creation. Everything was fluid, poised on the cusp of change.

He supposed that was the closest thing to a cogent theory he would ever achieve: the notion of a fluid reality constantly reshaping itself around those living it, a sort of improvised existence.

Molly moaned on the backseat, changing her position as she slept. She was real; she had to be. The love he felt, the pain at her discomfort…real, all of it. But now he was into the realm of emotion, of the inner world, and none of that was relevant to the world he could see outside the car windows. His head began to ache. It was all too large to take in, too slippery to grasp. It went against everything he knew about reality, and opened up too many questions to even consider. If none of this was real, if people could be ciphers who dipped in and out of the narrative of our lives, acknowledged only by ourselves, what did that say about the nature of reality itself?

He drove toward Battle with a chill in his hands, confusion in his mind, and sorrow in his heart. Above him, pale clouds scudded across a washed-out sun. But whose clouds where they; which author had created them; who or what had brought them into being?

“Nearly there,” he whispered, to Molly and to himself. “Nearly
where
?” The question was a valid one, but he doubted he would ever reach a conclusive answer.

The streets of Battle were, as always, quiet and restive: few people were outdoors, and the road traffic was characteristically light. Robert smiled as he climbed out of the car and went around to the back door. The scene was like a lightly sketched passage from a novel; the surroundings were not important to the plot, so detail was kept to a bare minimum. The scene seemed to fade away at the edges, like the visual limits of a video game.

He opened the rear door and took Molly in his arms, closing the door with his foot. He did not bother locking the car; he felt sure that car theft was not part of the story, and that the vehicle would still be there when they came out to collect it.

He took her through the back door and up the emergency stairs, not wanting to bring attention to the fact that she had to be carried. The last thing they needed right now was more police interest—even from real live policemen. He trod softly along the second-floor landing, slightly out of breath from the climb.

Sarah opened the door even before he reached it. Her face was dark, creased, and filled with an unexpected look of pity. “Is she okay?”

He nodded. “She’s just sleeping. She hasn’t been harmed, just shaken up a bit.”

Connor stood behind his mother, anxiously shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Put her on the bed,” he said.

Robert entered the room and laid Molly on the mattress, impressed once again by Connor’s concern for his sister. He turned to face the room—to face his wife—and opened his hands, as if showing her he was unarmed. It was a strange gesture to make, but for some reason it felt right.

He turned back to his daughter and stroked her hair, pushing it out of her face. She shifted onto her side, and he saw it there, on the back of her neck: a small, neat mark, an incision. It was in the shape of the letter
C
. They’d marked her, branded her like someone would do to cattle.

“They’ve cut her,” he said, trying to look away but unable to look anywhere else.

Sarah walked over and looked at Molly’s neck. She sucked in air through her teeth. “The bastards,” she said.

Connor let out a single sob. “The fucking cunts.” His language was blunt and to the point; Robert could see no point in is chastising him for it.

“This can’t go on,” he said, smoothing down Molly’s hair to hide the mark. “We have to stop them.”

Sarah nodded. Connor remained silent and moved to the other side of the room, started rummaging for his PSP.

“I assume you’ve seen the film clip.” There was no point in sidestepping the issue; confrontation was the only way now. He finally admitted to himself it always had been the way, and only now could he accept that.

“I’ve seen it. I can’t believe you were so stupid.” Her eyes were cold and hard, and Robert could see the hatred behind them. It stirred slowly and sinuously, like a serpent.

“I’m sorry.” It sounded pathetic, but what else could he say?

“I think we have more immediate problems than your tacky little blow job, Rob. I’m not falling into that fucker’s hands and going at you. That’s exactly what he wants, and I refuse to give it to him. I learned a lot when I was raped.”

Robert winced, as he always did when she mentioned the attack. He realized now that they had never properly confronted the issue, only ever approached it from the edges. Perhaps if they had been braver, and discussed it more openly a long time ago, things might be different now. Maybe they might still be the owners of their lives.

“I learned a lot about power and possession, and invasion. That’s what he did, you know: he invaded me. He forced himself inside me, invading me in my most personal spaces. I am not letting that happen again.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, forming thin snail trails on her skin.

“I don’t know what it means anymore, but I love you.” Again, his words sounded ridiculous, but Sarah seemed to understand what he was trying to say.

She nodded, glanced away, and then behind her, at Connor, who stood in the bathroom doorway clutching his PSP like a religious artifact—a weapon to repel the demons. “Love isn’t the issue here. The issue is hate. Are we capable of enough hate, enough primal loathing, to finish this thing?” She looked back at Robert, searching for a strength he did not even think was there.

“I hope so,” he said, sitting down on the bed. “But if we aren’t, we need to learn fast.” He glanced to Sarah’s side, at the mirror on the wardrobe door, and barely even recognized the man who stared back at him. He was losing himself, his features fading and his connection with the world degrading. Soon there would be nothing left but a smudge.

Sarah picked up her phone off the bedside cabinet. She held it up for them both to see the screen.

“Watch this with me. Know exactly what it is you’ve done.” She pressed a button to start the clip.

Robert watched in silence. After a few seconds, the scene altered, becoming something he could not remember. Corbeau’s wife turned to look directly into the phone camera, and she smiled. The smile sliced across the entire bottom of her face, bisecting it. Her nose changed, becoming like a pig’s snout. Her mouth opened wide, wider, showing nothing but blackness.

“This didn’t happen before.” Sarah’s hand was shaking, but she kept it together. “What is this? What’s happening to us? Where the hell are we?” She threw the phone onto the floor.

Robert shook his head. “We’re nowhere,” he said, wishing he knew what that meant.

The mobile phone twitched on the floor. Slowly, it began to move, and flipped over to display the screen. Nathan Corbeau’s face, wide and pale and hideous, stared at them. It pressed against the small glass panel, and then made it bulge outwards, as if it were made of rubber.

Calmly, Sarah got up, walked over to the phone, and stamped on it.

“We have to do something,” she said. “We have to stop them.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon as a family, locked up together and eating room service. With Molly rested and awake, they played games, they held hands; they even told each other stories, sitting in a tight circle on the master bed. This strange behavior added yet another layer of unreality to the whole situation, but by now Robert had learned to accept the weirdness. If this was just a fiction, a story being told to make a reader or a listener more afraid of the dark, then he intended to play his part well. The ending, when it came, would be brutal, but he would ensure it was also swift…and just.

The innocent must suffer
, he thought,
and the guilty must be punished
. Was that a line from a book or a film? He was not sure, but it had always resonated with him, seeming to mean something beyond the boundaries of fiction. The question now was,
who
was innocent and
who
was guilty? He suspected everyone had a little bit of both about them, and the true test would be strength of conviction.

The Corbeaus were animals in search of entertainment, but the Mitchells were now a family in search of meaning.

Robert closed his eyes and thought:
Let the strongest survive
.

WEDNESDAY

3:00
A.M.

He parked the car half a mile away from the access road, and they journeyed the rest of the way on foot. The night was warm but breezy; the wind helped keep them cool as they trod the narrow road toward Number One Oval Lane. The air around them was charged with energy. The trees along the side of the road appeared as if they were being created in that instant, filling in the gaps.

Robert was carrying a large carving knife. He had taken it from the hotel kitchen when he sneaked in there before they left, looking for a weapon. Sarah was content with the smaller blade they had been carrying in the car, along with the camping and cooking gear from their trip to the Lakes (a trip that now seemed so long ago, part of another lifetime). Connor carried his cricket bat. It was old and solid; an expensive gift one Christmas, when he first had fallen in love with the game. Molly was frightened of weapons of any kind, but under duress she had finally relented and taken up a small meat cleaver—again from the hotel kitchen—which she could conceal beneath the sleeve of her cardigan.

Ordinary weapons for an ordinary family trapped in extraordinary circumstances.

Robert could not help but smile at the sight they must have made, tramping along the side of the road, kitchen utensils and sporting goods gripped in their hands, and murder in their hearts. In his younger years, Robert had enjoyed procuring so-called “video nasties” to watch with his friends: notorious films like
Straw Dogs
,
Last House on the Left
,
Deliverance
,
I Spit on Your Grave
…movies where normal people were driven to atrocious acts of violence in defense of their homes, their family, or their chastity. This moment felt like a scene from any one of those films and their countless imitators…and just as unreal. He wondered if the character of Sergeant McMahon would make a final, vital appearance, or if his part in the proceedings was now over and done with.

“We need a theme, some soundtrack music.” He felt like laughing, but realized that would be insane, and possibly dangerous. If he started, he might never stop.

“What?” Sarah looked at him, the knife blade glinting in her hand. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. It isn’t important.” He stared at the road ahead and waited for the way to clear. There was nothing physical blocking their path, but he felt like he was pushing through layers of something he could not see; invisible curtains, or skeins of flesh that hung down from the sky like drapes.

A sound drew his attention—the cawing of a bird from somewhere above. Robert slowed his pace and looked up: the distant moon flared in his eyes, dimming his vision, but when it cleared, he saw two crows perched on a branch in a ragged tree. The crows shuffled sideways along the branch, as if following him. One of the birds released a white wad of guano and flapped its wings. The crows cawed again and Robert looked away, afraid.

That was real: fear was real. He had managed to deflect its effects since leaving the house, where he had rescued (if that was even the right word for what he had done) Molly, but now it had returned, stronger than ever. This confrontation he sought may be final, a fight to the death, and he had to consider the consequences of whatever action they were planning to take.

He was not fully convinced his family believed in the monstrous nature of the Corbeaus, but they believed in him enough to take up arms and follow him here. At the very least, something would be proved.

He gripped the knife, and it felt good. His hands adapted to the handle, fingers flowing around it as if the thing was meant to be in his hand.
Fuck the consequences
, he thought, and suddenly he was no longer so afraid.

Sarah reached out and grabbed his hand, and he squeezed her fingers. Familiar warmth passed between them, and once again he was proud of her for saving their personal row for later. He knew the time must come when they would face what he had done, but right now they were united, a team, and ready to go into combat against a common foe. Even if their marriage fell apart, they would always have this, and it would sustain them through the wreckage.